


Fever

by SlippinMickeys



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:29:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22947067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlippinMickeys/pseuds/SlippinMickeys
Summary: Mulder cares for Scully when she gets sick on a case.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 7
Kudos: 190





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> So, I drew my normal beta’s name (admiralty) for the Fluff exchange. Normally, she reads everything I write, so I had to do some literary funky poaching. I banged this out in about a day and sent it off for her to beta. The plan worked — my other fic, written for her, was a total surprise. 
> 
> This isn’t my best work, but it’s fluff!
> 
> Thanks for the beta, admiralty! 😆

The old adage about doctors making the worst patients would have rung more true if the doctor in question would at least admit she was sick. 

Her nose was red and running, she’d been dragging all afternoon no matter how much coffee she drank, and she kept sighing when she moved, like every part of her ached. 

“You okay, Scully?” he looked at her over the car’s console. She had her eyes closed and was resting her head against the passenger side window. 

“Mm, yeah,” she said, sitting up. 

She was definitely not okay. When they’d gotten to this podunk town three days ago to investigate this case (that was looking less and less like an X-File), she’d been practically vivacious compared to this grey, sniffling version of Scully that he was pretty sure had missed half of what the sheriff’s deputy had been telling them not fifteen minutes prior. 

For a moment he thought of testing his hypothesis by asking her what she thought of the deputy’s theory, but when he glanced back over at her, she looked so miserable that he didn’t have the heart to. 

“You don’t look okay,” he said instead. 

“I’m fine,” she said. 

She was decidedly not fine. Her complexion was wan, and her stare empty. 

“You’re sick, Scully,” he said, trying to wring empathy out of irritation. If he let on that he was perturbed by her putting on a brave face--which he was--she would do all but climb out of her deathbed to prove him wrong. 

He tried a different tack. Guilt. 

“The last time I was sick, you told me it was my body’s way of saying ‘take a break, you need rest.’”

“Mulder, I’m fine,” she said, and in counterpoint, she huffed in a long, wet sniff. 

“Scully,” he said, channeling patience, “ _ take a break. You need rest _ .”

She looked at him, and then visibly deflated, giving in to sickness, to him. 

“Okay,” she said, and her quick acquiesce startled him. She must  _ really _ feel awful. 

He looked at the road for a long moment before speaking. 

“Okay,” he said, “how about I get you back to the motel. You get into bed and I’ll finish up with the Sheriff and circle back?”   


She nodded and the gravel in the motel parking lot popped under the car’s tires as he pulled in. 

She was slow to fish out her room key when he got her to her door, and he watched her with worry as she fumbled with the lock. He was thankful their rooms were adjoining. 

“Scully?” 

She looked over at him while he opened his own door. 

“Get yourself changed and into bed and then open your side of the adjoining door, yeah? I’ll check on you once I get off the phone with the Sheriff.”

She nodded and tumbled into her room. 

He gave a soft knock on the connecting door ten minutes later and stuck his head in. 

She was already in bed in a ratty tee shirt, the blankets pulled up under her armpits. She was unrolling a bit of cheap one-ply toilet paper she’d brought in from the bathroom and blew her nose with it, making a face of distaste. 

“Can I get you anything?” Mulder asked. 

She winced. 

“A bottle of water and I should be okay,” she said, her voice having the nasally, snubbed quality of a person with a head cold. And then, as if an afterthought, “thanks, Mulder.”

He smiled at her. 

“It’s no problem.” 

He tried to do her one better. He got three bottles of water from the vending machine in the motel’s lobby and then sweet talked the receptionist into a new box of Kleenex from the housekeeping closet. It was cheap, scratchy stuff, but it might treat her nose slightly better than the toilet paper. 

He came into her room bearing his gifts. She smiled at him weakly. He sat meekly on the end of her bed. 

“When was the last time you ate anything?” he asked, remembering her picking at scrambled eggs and dry toast in the one local diner that morning. 

She shrugged. 

“You should eat something,” he said, and felt a little emboldened, hoping for another chore. 

“Food sounds terrible,” she said. 

“Still,” he said, standing, “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. Will you be alright while I go out and see what I can find?”

She nodded, and let her head fall back on the pillow. 

He suspected that she relented only because she knew he needed something to do and had refrained from pointing out that the tiny town they were in had very few options and that he was unlikely to find something open this time of day. 

He only hoped he’d be able to deliver. 

XxXxXxXxXxX

It had taken him far longer than he would have liked, though he was pretty pleased with his haul. 

It was dark by the time he stumbled through his own room’s door, and tripped over a pair of shoes and a dirty towel on his way to the adjoining doorway.

“Mul…” he heard her as he was walking through it, laden with plastic bags. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said quietly, “sorry, I hoped you’d be asleep.”

“Mul… der…” she didn’t sound quite right. Her voice was mumbly and quiet. 

“Scully, you okay?” he said, anxiety creeping into his voice. 

“Muh…” 

He quickly set the bags down and walked to the bed. She had the covers tucked up under her chin, and her eyes were closed. She was asleep, but fitfully. Thankful for that at least, he reached out to caress her face. When his hand touched her skin, he whipped it back. She was burning up. 

He stood quickly, a little lost. The extent of his medical expertise was “starve a fever, feed a cold,” and he usually relied on the very person he was trying to help for any further guidance. 

He made his way over to her suitcase, hoping to find the medical bag she usually kept there. After rifling a bit through her unmentionables, he found it. He dug around until he found the digital thermometer she kept inside, and brought it back to her bedside. 

“Scully? Hey Scully, wake up,” he said, and fought a surge of panic when she didn’t respond. 

He pulled the blanket down and pushed the neck of her shirt aside, sticking the thermometer into her armpit, and pushing her shoulder down. He had a vague recollection of Scully once holding the very same thermometer and saying primly “I could do this rectally, if you’d rather.” He shook off the memory. 

The thermometer beeped and he pulled it out to look at the display.  _ 103.8 _

_ Shit. _

He felt ill prepared for this, like a parent the first time their baby got sick--the reality of making a decision far different than the theory. He should take her to a doctor, he thought. He racked his brain trying to remember the last hospital they’d passed on their way to this town and recalled that the last city of any size had been over an hour away. 

He would have to handle this himself. 

He quickly made his way to her bathroom and started running the water in the tub, cool but not cold. 

When he got back to the bed, she was moaning a bit, and he had to pull the blankets out of her grip. He assessed her for a moment, biting his lip, considering the best way of doing this. 

“Scully, I need you to wake up,” he said, putting some authority into his voice. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him pathetically. She opened her mouth to speak, but her teeth started chattering. 

“I don’t feel good,” she said, her voice sounding small and childlike. His heart clenched. 

“You’ve got a really high fever, Scully,” he said, trying to keep his voice measured, “We need to get you undressed and into a cool tub, okay?”

To her credit, or at least to how lousy she obviously felt, all she did was nod and sit up, her head lolling forward a bit. However, she made no move to undress herself. It was up to him. 

“I’m going to help you get your clothes off, okay?” he said, and she nodded, mutely. 

He reached for her shirt, and thumbed the hem, hesitating a bit. 

_ To hell with it _ , he thought.

He pulled at her shirt and her arms came up weakly next to her head, the only help she could offer. He tried not to notice that she wore nothing underneath.

He put his fingers at the waist of her pajama bottoms and considered a moment. He could afford her some modesty and leave her underwear on, but then he’d have to get her out of them before getting her back in bed, and he figured now was probably best. 

“I’m going to help you out of your bottoms, can you lean back?” he said. 

She complied without a word. 

Once she was leaning back against the pillows, he peeled her pajama bottoms and panties off in one swoop, thinking briefly that this was not the romantic, sexy tableau he’d always envisioned. Her skin felt like a hot frying pan under his fingers and he snapped back to the situation at hand. 

Her eyes were half-lidded and he didn’t even bother waiting for her to sit up under her own power--he scooped her up and carried her quickly to the bathroom, flashing on the one other time he’d done this, in Antarctica, when her skin had had the cold, clammy feel of a corpse. 

The tub was shallow and had filled almost to the top--he had to kick the faucet with his foot to get it to turn off. He lowered her gingerly into the water, soaking his own shirt in the process. 

When her body hit the water, her eyes flew open. 

“Mulder!” she said, a look of panic on her face. 

“I know,” he said, soothingly, “I know. It sucks. It’s just for a little bit, though. We need to get your fever down.”

She nodded and clenched her teeth, leaning her head against the plastic lip of the tub. He reached for a washcloth and wetted it, resting it gently on her brow. 

He knelt beside the tub, turned away from her to give her a bit of privacy, ignoring the feeling of the cold tile on his knees. The silence was grating. 

“Did I ever tell you?” he said, to break it, “Samantha used to get sick on every holiday.” 

His eyes darted to her face. Scully’s lips went up in a fraction of a smile. 

“Not like with a fever or anything,” he went on, “but she’d get so excited she’d puke. Especially Easter or Christmas. It got to the point that Mom started leaving a bucket in her room the night before, just in case.”

Scully’s chin slowed, her teeth no longer chattering. He kept talking. 

“It finally became rote. Cookies and milk out for Santa, a bucket for Samantha. Talk about your weird family traditions.”

He took the washcloth off of her forehead and turned it over, putting the cool side down. He let his eyes rove briefly over her from head to toe, the water obscuring the lines of her lithe body, magnifying the rosy peaks of her nipples, the thatch of bright hair at her center. 

His gaze rose to her face and he watched her lick cracked lips, then open her eyes to look at him. He turned away from her and his arms started to itch under the wet fabric of his shirt. 

“Ibuprofen,” she said weakly, “in my bag. Can you bring me three?”

He jumped up immediately and dug through her bag until he found the small bottle. He shook out three into his palm and then grabbed one of the bottles of water he’d brought her earlier. When he handed them to her, he turned his back, giving her some privacy. 

“Can you grab me a towel?” she said, “and some clothes?”

He laid a towel next to the tub where she could get to it and then went into her room to retrieve her pajamas. In his haste and panic, he’d dropped them to the grubby motel floor where they sat on the carpet in a heap. He’d heard her say “let me know when you need an antifungal” too many times while he traipsed around barefoot in a hotel to even think of letting her put them back on. He toed them aside and went into his own room and suitcase, pulling out an old Knicks shirt that had been washed into a pale blue, heavenly softness, and a pair of clean boxers. He halted at the bathroom door.

“I’ve got some clothes for you, Scully,” he said, “do you… need any help getting them on?”

She didn’t answer right away, and then he heard a resigned, weak, “...yes.”

He entered the bathroom and set the clothes down on the countertop, then knelt down next to the tub and put his hand to her forehead. 

“You still feel pretty warm,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face. 

“One more minute in here,” she said, “the ibuprofen should kick in soon.”

When the minute was up, she reached a hand out and he pulled her slowly to her feet, and then wrapped the towel around her shoulders. She started drying her arms in halting movements, and finally Mulder reached out and said gently, “here, let me.” 

He rubbed her down efficiently, trying not to linger anywhere and make her uncomfortable. Then he grabbed the boxers and held them out for her to step into, and slipped the shirt over her head. He had to roll the tops of the boxers over three times so that they wouldn’t fall off of her hips, and the shirt fell to nearly her knees. 

Her posture was not that of a sea captain’s daughter. She was bent over slightly, her face wearing a pinched expression. 

He held out an arm, which she gratefully grabbed onto. 

“Let’s get you back into bed,” he said. 

The short walk seemed to exhaust her. 

“I feel so weak,” she said, as he pulled the covers back up and over her lap. 

“You should eat something,” he said, and she nodded. 

“I probably should,” she said. 

He walked over to where he’d dropped the bags on his way in and pulled out several containers and a couple of plastic utensils. He held them up to her. 

“Soup?” he asked. 

She nodded. 

He handed her a small container and a spoon. 

“How did you manage?” she asked as she took a small bite.

“I happened upon the waitress we had two days ago while she was closing up the diner. Convinced her to open it back up and get me a few ready-made things. What they say is true; flattery will get you everywhere.”

She gave him a small smile. 

“I may or may not be engaged to her, now,” he went on, sitting on her bedside, “things got kind of weird.”

She huffed a laugh. 

After a few bites, she lowered the soup and spoon to her lap. 

“That’s all I can do for now,” she said, “thank you, Mulder.”

He moved them to her bedside table. 

“You should get some sleep,” he said gently. She nodded and scootched down under the covers. “I’m going to stay here with you,” he went on, “if that’s okay? In case you need anything.”

“Mulder I don’t want you getting sick, too.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, settling onto the narrow bed next to her, propping himself up against the headboard, “I’ll Purell.”

She argued no more as sleep took her under. He pulled off his wet shirt and settled in for the night.

XxXxXxXxXxX

When she woke, it was to the smell of skin and cheap industrial detergent, a warm body in a scratchy bed. Her head was pressed against Mulder’s side, his arm above her as if to trap her heat. Her body felt overworked and her joints ached with the fatigue of fever, but she could tell the worst was over. 

She tried feeling embarrassed about all that had transpired last night, but found she couldn’t. At the time she’d just felt too awful, and now she just felt grateful that she’d had help at all. The light in the room had a dull, early quality to it. She closed her eyes and let herself drift back to sleep. 

When she woke again, there was bright sunlight leaking beneath the thin material of the room’s drapes, and the space next to her was empty. She could hear Mulder’s muffled monotone through the partially closed connecting door--he was on the phone and trying to be quiet. 

He paced in front of the door and she took in what she could see of him through the crack. He was in dress pants and dark socks, his shirt halfway buttoned-up and his hair was damp. 

A tickle in her nose brought her sitting up, and she reached for a tissue from the box Mulder had brought her last night. She blew her nose delicately and looked up to see Mulder looking in at her, his eyes a little anxious. He slipped his cell phone into his pocket. 

“Hey,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

She was quiet for a moment and did a self-assessment. The blow had cleared out her sinuses and she could breathe fully through her nose for the first time in two days. She looked up to him.

“Hungry,” she said, and he smiled at her--a big beaming smile he only trotted out on rare occasions. 

“That’s a good sign, huh?” he said, moving into her room. 

“Definitely,” she answered, as he sat down on the foot of her bed, “Who was on the phone?”

“Skinner,” he said, “and the Sheriff. We’re off the hook. The Sheriff’s office got a tip last night that looks like it’s going to shake out and Skinner’s pulling us back to DC.”

“Not because of me, I hope,” she said. While she was happy to head back home, the thought of being pulled off the case because of some vulnerability--however universal--pulled at her. 

“Not at all,” Mulder said, “I didn’t even mention you weren’t feeling well. The Sheriff’s office seems to have it well in hand now and Skinner doesn’t want any further expense.”

She nodded and looked down at the faded, worn tee shirt of his she was wearing and had a vague inclination to try to steal it. 

“Thanks for last night,” she said, “for… everything.”

He brought a hand up as if brushing away her gratitude. 

“You’d do the same for me,” he said. 

She nodded and held his gaze for a moment, and then he stood. 

“Are you feeling up to going out for breakfast?” he asked, “I’d bring you something back from the diner, but I’m afraid if I don’t take some backup with me, I’ll get out of there with more than just an omelette.”

“Such as?” she asked, swinging her legs out of the covers and over the side of the bed.

“A wife,” he said, “and for as helpful as Waitress Fern is, I’m not exactly in the market.”

Scully slid on the socks Mulder had thoughtfully placed on her bedside table. 

“Ah, but think of the alliteration possibilities, Mulder,” she said, “‘Fox and Fern’ just rolls off the tongue.” She stood slowly, getting a feel for her legs under her. “You could have a woodland themed wedding. I’ll dress as a dryad and give you away.”

He made his way toward his room to give her a bit of privacy. He paused in the doorway, turned and said, “I’d pay money to see the former, but can’t abide the latter.”

With that, he closed the door. 

XxXxXxXxXxX

Fern had seemed delighted that her charitable gifting of soup had cured Scully, so had forgotten about any promises Mulder may or may not have made to her the evening before. They escaped breakfast at the town’s only diner with their single statuses in check and two pieces of strawberry pie for the road (“for whatever else ails you,” said Fern). 

Mulder leaned his head back against the headrest as they were about to begin the six hour drive back to DC and sighed tiredly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Would you like me to drive, Mulder?” she asked, glad that her head seemed to clear more by the minute. Eating good, hot food had certainly seemed to help. 

“No,” he said, squinting at her, “you should see if you can get some more shut-eye. I’ll be fine.”

And so she did, coming to consciousness 90 minutes later to the sound of Mulder sneezing four times in a row. 

She stretched in the seat and turned to him. 

“Everything all right?” she asked. 

“Fine,” he said, with a small smile, “sorry if I woke you. Allergies.”

Spring had come to the West Virginia hills they were driving through--cottonwood seeds drifted thickly through the air and the ditches that lined the highway were filled with green water scummed with pollen and bursts of frogsong. Nevertheless, she eyed him skeptically. 

“You’re sure you’re feeling all right?” she asked him.

“I feel great!” he said, and promptly sneezed again. 

An hour later she was convinced he was coming down with whatever she’d had. His complexion had paled and he was trying to huff in little sniffs without her noticing, which of course she did. 

A few miles later they stopped for gas, and when he went inside to pay, she slid into the driver’s seat and turned down his increasingly weak protestations that he was fine when he came back. 

He slumped against the passenger side window an hour outside of DC. 

When she pulled onto Hegal Place, he slowly lifted his head, surveying his surroundings in a confused, disjointed lethargy. She found a parking space right in front of his building and when she cut the engine, he turned to her with a hangdog expression, his cheeks tinged with pink against an otherwise pale face. 

“Scully?” he said, his voice quiet, “I don’t feel good.” 

“Oh, Mulder,” she said sweetly, and reached out to run her fingers through the flop of hair on his forehead. “Let’s get you into bed.”


End file.
